Now it didn’t mean anything, though, not today. It was a silly mistake, a nervous tic: one that turned her breath, but only by accident. Why signal he wanted to get her alone when nobody else was here?
He grinned at her and then, before she could speak, dodged in with, “You’re not going to take that back?”
“Take what?”
“You’re saying you genuinely needed me to check? You’re sticking with that? You seriously want me to consider that you might have found the storm upsetting? You.” He tapped his cup’s rim. “Sarah,” softly, “Guardham,” marking every word. “The woman sitting in front of me.” This last, as if it were something he found pleasant—Sarah facing him, the two of them together, by themselves.
Which made the words dry in her throat. “I might not be the way you remember. It’s been a while …”
“Yes, I know. But you haven’t changed. Have you?” He watched her, tried to make his smile begin another question, one he wouldn’t say. “Well?”
“I’m older—”
“Are you different?”
“No.” And this was no more wrong than yes but still she had to aim the words at the window behind him, at the damp, green, morning light. When he stayed silent, she turned to face him and saw that his eyes were closed, his head angled a little to one side. He let out a brief, thin breath, after which the line of his lips flattened and his mouth set tight.
She hadn’t meant to upset him, “David?” but she’d managed to, all the same.
“It’s OK. I heard. You’re no different.” He began to get up. “I should shave, get tidied up.”
“You don’t have to.” Although there was no point in her speaking, because he wasn’t different, either. “Not for me.” If he wanted to be angry then he would be: instantly heavy with it, sealed.
“I do have to—for me.” He stared at her as if she were that woman in the window, an unattractive fake.
“What if I asked you not to.”
“Don’t be silly.” He yawned, something insincere about the movement, and then removed the pleasure from her memory of the night. “Actually, I didn’t think you’d be scared of the thunder. In fact, when the whole thing began, I just jumped out of bed and I didn’t even … Well, you know.”
And she did know: he would have continued with and I didn’t even think of you and, rather than hurt her feelings, he’d made her finish off his sentence and hurt them herself.
“Well, go and get a shave, then.” Her voice abrasive and middle-aged—almost embarrassing. “You need one.” She watched him leave: the small plume of hair near his crown that wouldn’t lie flat, the drape of the dressing gown against him, the soft rise and fall of his bare feet. He had a stiff, short stride, something pompous about it.
Sarah decided to throw away the pan of bacon. They hadn’t got around to eating it, but still this wasn’t sensible: they could have the stuff cold later on, after all, it hadn’t outlived its usefulness, but their argument would mean it wouldn’t taste right—the way that lightning was supposed to spoil fresh milk. She didn’t want it, so out it would go and, if David felt the need for bacon later, he could cook his own.
She cleared the table and washed up listening to the small, pedantic din of his preparations for the day: the drumming of along, thorough shower, the bathroom clatter, his razor whining lightly while he stared at himself, she supposed, as he used to, with a sort of studious regret. There was a touch of temper about the louder impacts and once she heard his voice in a low punch of unintelligible complaint. He made the house cramp in against her.
So she walked out and on to the deck. The sun had risen enough to strike the planking fully and lift its moisture in a softly swinging mass of steam. Signs of the storm were everywhere, white tears and breaks in the canopy, drifts of torn leaves, the smell of drying timber and washed earth. A woodpecker trotted, picking through the grass at the clearing’s edge, intent on fallen insects.
And this was what she’d wanted when she moved here, a clean place for watching nothing much happen quietly. There was a spare room, of course, but she’d never considered that anyone would use it. Come back after thirty-three years and that was what you got: no visitors. Mother in the Lutheran churchyard and father in the Episcopalian and no sense in leaving flowers now when she’d missed both funerals, along with the silences and arguments, the whole mess of it long, long gone. There were some cousins close to Norwalk, she thought, but she couldn’t remember them. Anyway, she hadn’t missed the people, she’d come home for the New England colours. She’d wanted to have that sea-faded look to everything again: even inland, that dusting of salt, that blue in the weather’s eye.
Somewhere behind her, she heard a door slam, followed by the lighter clack of its screen and then the tump of irritable feet. David was off for a walk, then, going somewhere without her. He could have done that in Manchester, where he belonged.
She listened to his solid progress along the narrow path beside the house. First the woodpecker started up, its wings flaring out two loops of white in the shade and then, off to the east, the crows began to barrack anxiously. The man was a complete disturbance. Next she could make out the red shout of his sweater, broken by leaves, and the pallor of his hands and face, pressing on. He’d have raised his first sweat already: the humidity wrapping in close again to muffle and punish the slightest effort. Poor old David, perpetually over-dressed.
Sarah thought she might as well take a shower herself, get on with the day as if he’d never arrived. But then she realised he’d left the path and stopped, was facing her through the trees, looking up from the clear foot of the rise. At this distance, his expression was unclear, but she could read the sad tilt to his shoulders.
And, although she didn’t want to, she remembered that night near the end when they’d argued and he’d walked off, as usual, but then not gone away. Instead, he’d stood at the bar by himself with his back to her, not drinking, not speaking to the people at his side, and when she’d seen how he was, every line in him miserable, she’d wanted to go over and kiss him, stroke his neck. But he was the one who’d decided to be alone so she’d felt the soft dart of need under her ribs and had declined to answer it. She’d left the pub without him, spent the night awake in the flat, perfectly aware that, this time, he wouldn’t come back.
He was here now, though, motionless and being unhappy at her all over again. This was ridiculous. She was strongly tempted to wave, but knew that David wouldn’t like it—his sense of humour could fade extremely easily.
And I’ve got no idea what you would like. I didn’t ever know that. And I tried to find out, you can’t say I didn’t try.
She lifted one hand to her face and touched back her hair, then folded her arms, only the rail between her and the dogged nudge of his attention.
I’d go inside now, if he wasn’t still out there, being absurd.
David being David, every time the same, every time needing to have his own way. Now he was making sure that she couldn’t leave without being inadvertently insulting and couldn’t stay without feeling his touch, ghosted over her skin.
Although that’s probably not his intention, it’s just happening. Once I’m dressed, I won’t feel a thing.
Then, because he’d seen whatever he’d wanted, or else decided it wouldn’t be shown, he turned back for the path abruptly, almost stumbling, scrub and low branches closing behind him quickly until he was out of sight.
I never understand what he means, he just isn’t clear. And, whatever else he can say about me, I am that, I was always that—I do make myself clear. What I wanted and didn’t, I said everything, it wasn’t my fault that he didn’t believe me, that he thought I’d intended something else. He put words in my mouth, in my mind. It had nothing to do with me. And it was years ago, years, why on earth set that sort of confusion off again? Why can’t he just be here and be calm? I’m calm.
Her bathroom was full of him. Not that he wasn’t neat, didn’t clean up nicely whereve
r he’d been, it was just that his presence was obvious: in the extra towel, still heavy with water, in the primly zipped spongebag, in the wet cling of the shower curtain.
But there’s nothing better for tension than a good shower. She rinsed out the bath, readied the jet of water—he seemed to like it cooler than she did—and then stepped in. I’d forgotten how it was. A couple of days with him, a couple of minutes with him when he’s in a mood, and I get that scrabbling sensation above my eyes. So I end up in the shower, washing it away. By the time we’d finished, it’s a wonder that I hadn’t grown webbed feet.
And maybe he was in here before, trying to wash off the worst of me. Maybe we just do this to each other.
But I’m calm. I will be calm.
She was probably standing about where he’d stood, as naked as he must have been.
Oh, and he would make a meal of that: the subtext and the convoluted thinking, so many meanings that in the end it’s all meaningless.
Like the card—the inexplicable card—the one that he didn’t have to send. For ten Christmasses there had been nothing, which she quite understood: she was, after all, for most of that time, quite married to somebody else.
And that was destined to be a great success, of course. Six months after David’s over with, I get married, because I’ve finally found something right, or near enough right, or at least simple, and marrying will make it last for ever and ever, amen.
Closed the bedroom door behind us on our honeymoon night and I could barely breathe. I had to tell my blushing bridegroom that I’d got a stomach bug—anything not to face it, not that time.
Which, if I think about it, was David’s fault.
She still had no idea of how or why he’d found her. But, for whatever reasons, his card had arrived last December: a moderately sized, rather sober-looking card of the Christmas variety. His handwriting hadn’t improved, what there was of it, crawling above and below the usual Yuletide sentiments.
Sorry this took so long.
As if she’d been waiting for him, and then:
I do hope it is a happy Christmas,
same for the New Year.
This is my number. If you want to, call.
“If you want to.” David’s way of saying what he wanted and felt she should want, too.
He knew I’d be curious—and on my own. He didn’t say, but he must have heard I was on my own.
“God, I’m glad.” As if they’d never stopped speaking, had only taken a beat or two for breath. “Well … you really did, you called. And I’m in.” It pleased her that she’d made him sound flustered. “God … Sorry. Where are you calling from? I wasn’t sure of the address …”
“America.”
“Holiday?”
“No, I went home. I live here.” And a silence is only a silence, but she did remember that his seemed hurt and so she’d added, “But they’re forwarding my post,” only to fill up the space. “You were lucky, I think they’ll stop soon. I can’t remember how long I paid for.” And then, when he still said nothing, “It’s a service. You know … that you buy. I don’t, in fact, get many letters from over there now. Or cards.” And he’d pulled her in, staying quiet like that, almost as if there was nobody on the line, except that she could tell the difference, she’d felt him there, known her being so far away had actually upset him, could understand that from the soft irregularity of his breath. “Ah, I don’t know, but—do you want to come?” She’d only said it to be friendly, “To visit?” And because she must have wanted him to, “You could?” It was odd that she hadn’t known she’d ask.
“Oh, that’s … that sounds as if it would be … very inconvenient.”
“Inconvenient?” David hadn’t lost the knack of making her feel clumsy, superfluous. “Yes, I suppose it would be. I’m a freelance, I forget other people have—”
“No, no, no. I meant inconvenient for you.” She’d heard the slither of anxiety under his words—it was generally easier to make him anxious than it was to make him content. He’d paused and went on more cautiously, “I would, I could … my holidays aren’t … the summer would be the best time. Would that be a good time?” She did want him to be content, did want to help him be that way.
“That would be a good time.”
“That would be a good time?”
“Yes. A good time. Yes.” And, after a strangely inadequate effort, they had both seemed to be more than content, happy.
But I didn’t ask him what he meant by a good time.
And through each of the other calls and the making of arrangements, neither of them had dwelt on why she’d made the invitation, or why he’d accepted it. Sarah supposed that neither of them was willing to risk an enquiry.
Should I dress as though I care what he thinks, or to be comfortable, or what?
She let the water fall against her for a long time: it wasn’t as soothing as she’d hoped.
It doesn’t matter. In another four days he’ll be gone.
That doesn’t matter, either.
By the time David reappeared, she had slipped on the old shirt and jeans she wore to go out in the woods and was listening to the radio. A few miles upstate, the storm had brought down power lines, a tree had crushed the roof of someone’s summer house, but no one, so they said, had been hurt.
“We were lucky.”
David was in the kitchen, his head bent to the tap, drinking the water as it ran. “What?” He turned to her, lips and chin wet, his eyes faintly guilty. “Sorry. Should have used a glass.” The heat of the walk had left his face unguarded, young—the way it had looked when she met him at the airport, when he first saw her and waved and marked her out in the crowd as someone who was meeting someone, a person who would soon be off to continue a large and friendly life. “Sorry.” She’d thought then it would be all right, that he wouldn’t spoil it and neither would she.
“No need to be sorry. You’ve saved the washing up. Did you have a good walk?”
“Mm.” He drifted one hand under the tap, let it cool, then wiped it, dripping, across his forehead, his cheek, the side of his throat. “Hot, though.” Moisture gathered at the corner of his eye and then descended.
“Did you see anything worth the trip?”
He bent away from her and shut the water off. “I saw a lot.” Then he gave her his back, leaned against the worktop. The short trim of his hair showed up the grey. At the nape of his neck there was a rise of white.
Still, men can get away with that—looks dreadful on a woman. I can’t recall when I started to use dye. He’ll have seen the packet in the bathroom. Not that I care.
“See anything special?” She tried to make the question casual, as if he could take his pick of meanings and she wouldn’t mind.
This time in a mumble, as if he regretted repeating it, “I saw a lot.” He shifted his weight to one hip. “But I don’t know what I’m looking at, half the time, maybe more than that.”
She took a step in towards him, made the decision: “That’s because you’re in a foreign country.”
“Then help me out.” Something in the way he asked made the light seem different, hazardous.
She stepped in again and reached to put a hand on each of his shoulders.
“Don’t do that.” But he didn’t move and didn’t stop her.
“You asked me to help you out.”
“But that doesn’t help.” He shrugged up his shoulder, angled his head and then let his chin rest its edge on the fingers of her left hand. “That makes me not know where I am.”
“You’re here.”
“That doesn’t help.”
They stayed together without moving then, Sarah feeling the damp of his skin, the little blink of muscle when he swallowed, the flat heat of his shoulders, stiff with a resistance beyond her control, a lack of trust.
Eventually, he sighed and straightened his neck. She withdrew her hands, moist now and still slightly weighted with the echo of his shape, the negative of touch.
&n
bsp; They’ll smell of him, but I’ll wash them and then they won’t.
David turned and faced her. “Sorry.”
“Uh hu.”
“No, I mean it: I shouldn’t have—”
“Neither should I.”
He looked very tired now, but otherwise she couldn’t tell if he was angry, happy, sad, indifferent, content. Kissing him, she was sure, would be quite inappropriate, but if he didn’t leave soon, she would try it, anyway.
“Why don’t you get some more sleep, David?”
“Because I’m not—” he stopped himself, lifted half a grin and shook his head. “No, you’re right. I am wavery, a bit. Maybe things will be better when I’ve had another couple of hours.”
“Are things bad at the moment?” She knew she shouldn’t ask—didn’t even want an answer—certainty, when it closed on her, was far more frightening than doubt.
“Are they …?” He rubbed his eyes. “I’m not sure … I will go and sleep, though. That’s a good idea.” He nodded to her, his face briefly defenceless, and she needed to feel his skin again, stung with its absence.
When he woke and came through, at almost five, she cooked them both new bacon and scrambled eggs and, between them, they ate the best part of a loaf in toast.
“Oh, that’s the stuff.” He wiped his plate clean with a slice of cold bread in a way that suggested she might have to cook something else. “I’d forgotten we haven’t eaten all day.” He glanced at her briefly, enquiring. “Unless you managed something while I wasn’t here.”
“I didn’t manage anything.”
“Glad I’m indispensable.” He studied the fold of bread.
“It was too hot to eat.”
He breathed a small, unamused laugh, and Sarah understood that they would fight again, if she didn’t manage this more sensibly.
Except, if we don’t fight, then I have to—We would both—I don’t know. I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to hurt me.
“David? I’d like us to do something.”
“What?”
He met her eyes with a level of concern that was almost insulting, but she only looked back at him and made herself calm.
Indelible Acts Page 17